Hear No Evil

If the smile of anticipation on Hector Torres’s lips was any indication, he didn’t seem to give a damn.

“Please raise your right hand,” the bailiff said.

Brian did as he was told, though he seemed slightly confused by the administration of the oath. The bailiff said it aloud, and a young woman signed it out for Brian, breaking down the barriers of lost hearing. Jack watched the woman’s gestures with interest, all that gibberish about “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” What could it possibly mean to a ten-year-old boy, be it in sign or the spoken word? It probably would have made more sense to pinky swear.

“I do,” said Brian.

It was the first time Jack had heard his voice. The speech was understandable, though far from perfect. His response was somewhere between “I do” and “Ah duh.”

“Please be seated,” said the judge.

The courtroom was silent as the prosecutor stepped forward. Brian wasn’t focused on Torres, or the jury, or the judge. Initially, it struck Jack as odd that the boy wasn’t even seeking out his mother, but then he realized that Brian was riveted to the sign interpreter, his co

What was really odd was that Lindsey wasn’t watching her son.

The judge said, “Young man, I know this is all new to you. If you get tired or confused or need a break, you speak up and let me know. You understand?”

Brian waited for the sign interpretation, then said, “Yes, sir.”

The judge looked at the prosecutor and said, “Mr. Torres, proceed.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Torres unbuttoned his suit coat and buried a hand in his pants pocket. He was trying hard to be nonthreatening, the exact opposite of the way he normally handled witnesses. “Good morning, Brian.”

“Good morning.” That time, he didn’t need the interpreter. He read Torres’s lips.

“First, let me say how sorry I am about the loss of your father. I know this is extremely painful for you, so I will try to be brief.”

There was a short pause for signing, then Brian thanked him. Torres took another step closer, now with both hands in his pockets. He spoke in a low voice, a hint of sadness in it, more paternal than prosecutorial. “Brian, is that your mother sitting over there?”

Again there was silence. Brian’s gaze slowly shifted toward the defense table, finally coming to rest on Lindsey. Jack saw no anger in his eyes, no animosity. Brian seemed to be pleading with his mother, as if asking for forgiveness.

Still, Lindsey wouldn’t look at him.

Brian said, “Yes, that’s my mom.”

“All right,” said Torres. “You understand that you have to tell the truth in this courtroom. It doesn’t matter who is watching.”

Jack didn’t like the implication that his client might encourage falsehoods, but he withheld his objection. There was no upside in jumping all over a kid who was merely acknowledging that he had to be truthful.

Brian said, “Yes, I will tell the truth.”

Torres paused, as if an ominous stretch of silence was the appropriate buildup for his next question. Finally, he asked in a grave tone, “Brian, did you shoot your father?”

Brian looked at his mother, and for the first time since the young witness had entered the courtroom, Jack’s client made direct eye contact with her son. It was almost imperceptible, and Jack wasn’t sure if he was actually seeing it or imagining it. But he could have sworn that Lindsey-ever so slightly-had shaken her head.

The boy looked at the prosecutor, then spoke directly to the jury. “No, I did not kill my father.”

“Thank you. No further questions.”

Torres turned and took his seat. Brian seemed ready to get up and leave, but Jack was quickly on his feet, which sent a clear message that the ordeal wasn’t over yet.

The judge said, “Mr. Swyteck, cross-examination?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Jack could manage only half steps as he approached the witness, as if his feet were weighted in blocks of cement. Brian looked terrified, and it sickened Jack to think that this was how they would meet, this was how he would introduce himself to his own flesh and blood, the big bad defense lawyer staring down a ten-year-old boy on the witness stand. Jack wondered who had selected Brian’s clothes, who had combed his hair, who had told him not to worry, that it would all be over soon. Jack wanted to cut through the tension and be a friend whom Brian could turn to. He wanted to wish away all the horrible things that had happened at the little house in Guantánamo. He wanted to lose the necktie, reach across the rail, and see if the kid wanted to arm wrestle him or do a round of rock, paper, scissors.

He wanted to do anything but what he had to do.

Jack took another step forward, pushing through that profound sense of dread, struggling to get a tighter grip on reality and find a stronger sense of purpose. This boy was a witness. Not just any witness, but a key witness for the prosecution. He was in this courtroom for one reason: to help the prosecutor put his mother in jail. It was Jack’s job to keep Brian’s mother out of jail, to keep Lindsey from taking the fall for her son.

“Good morning, Brian,” said Jack.

Brian was silent. He clearly didn’t want any part of Jack’s pleasantries, and the mistrust written all over his face only added to the tension that filled the courtroom. No one could have possibly envied Jack’s position, the lawyer forced to paint his client’s young son as a murderer. Yet, no one outside the defense team knew the full depth of Jack’s pain. No one else knew that Jack was up against his own child.

“Brian, how long have you been deaf?”

“A long time.”

Jack nodded. It was a true answer, but an evasive one as well. The medical file that Brian’s grandfather had shared with Jack had laid out all the details, putting Brian’s deafness in an entirely new light. In fact, it wasn’t until Jack learned the true cause of Brian’s hearing loss that he came to see the case against Lindsey so very differently, which made it seem like the right place to start his cross-examination.

“How did you lose your hearing?” asked Jack.

The boy dipped a shoulder, as if embarrassed to answer.

Jack said, “All you have to do is tell the truth. That’s all we want to hear. Just tell us the truth.”

“It was an accident,” said Brian.

“An accident,” said Jack. “How did it happen?”

“I did it myself.”

“You made yourself deaf?”

He nodded.

“How did you do that?”

Brian looked away. “Headphones.”

“You were listening to loud music, isn’t that right, Brian?”

“Yes.”

“Over a period of many months, you put on the headphones, and you kept turning up the volume louder and louder. Right?”

Again he nodded.

“Each time you did it, you damaged your hearing a little more. By the time you were five years old, you were profoundly deaf.”

Brian didn’t answer, but Jack was saying it for the jury’s benefit anyway. “Isn’t that right, Brian?”

“Yes.”

Jack moved closer. He was pretty sure he knew the answer, but he had to ask the question. It was time to test his theory, and he couldn’t have been more sorry that it had to come at Brian’s expense. “Why did you do that to yourself, Brian?”

The boy shook his head.

“Brian, did your mother and father argue a lot?”

He waited for the interpreter, then said, “Yes. All the time.”

“Did your father ever hit your mother?”

Again he paused. He sca

“Did she cry?”

He nodded.

“Did she scream?”

“Yes.”

“How did it make you feel to hear your mother screaming and crying?”